


Manifest Destiny

by MeloraMaxwell



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Badass Ladies, F/M, Gen, Power of Words, Romance but not, War Boy Culture, compassion doesn't mean weakness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-30
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 04:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5321264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeloraMaxwell/pseuds/MeloraMaxwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He deserves her anger, her hate. His blood-bag killed one of her own. He's failed the Immortan.<br/>Why isn't she hating him? Why isn't she stabbing him, spitting at him, cursing him? He knows what to do with hate. Whatever this is, he can't fight it. </p>
<p>*Capable/Nux, from the first true meeting at the back of the War Rig.*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Whatever muse was whispering in George Miller’s ear when he wrote Fury Road, stick with him. He’s produced something even better than gold.
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything Mad Max was, is and will be, belongs to George Miller. I’m just playing in his Wasteland.

“So, um...”

The Fool clears his throat with hesitation, glancing over at Furiosa.

“...Where is this...this Green Place?”

She quietly strokes Cheedo’s hair, the younger girl’s sobs having lessened now to the odd sniffle.

Furiosa finishes tightening the bolts on her metal knuckles and looks at him. “It’s a long night’s run, heading east.”

She hears the Fool and Furiosa speak without listening.

It’s all too raw, too close to the surface to do anything other than to feel her heart break, to keep her eyes averted from the empty space where Angharad had curled up less than half a day before, arms crossed over her swollen belly, her glare never lessening for a moment whenever she stared at the Fool.

“We need inventory.” The older woman reaches down and hauls up the leather bag of bullets from beside her feet.

“I want you to match every gun with its bullets.”

It sounds like a general order, but they know it’s one meant for Toast. Miss Giddy once said that she had a photographic memory. Proudly, like it was a good thing.

Miss Giddy probably didn’t mean for that memory to be used this way, but out here, they need all the good things they can get.

The former Imperator slings her toolkit and harness over her shoulder and nods at the Fool. “I’m gonna go down and do some repairs.”

The Fool never takes his eyes off the Wasteland ahead. “We need someone down the back.”

Finally, an escape.

She quickly sits up, dislodging Cheedo’s head from its resting place against her shoulder. “I’ll go.”

“No.” Furiosa’s head whips round. “I want you to stay together.”

She grabs the ancient set of binoculars and wraps the wrist strap around her hand. “I can do it.”

The Dag quietly slides her legs back down onto the floor of the cab as she scrambles out of the door, grey-blue eyes seeing everything and nothing.

* * *

The monotony of the passing Wasteland soothes her pain slightly. She leans against the warm metal of the rear lookout, the desert winds wicking away any tears as soon as they fall from her eyes.

She hopes it was quick.

If there’s any kind of mercy out here, Angharad’s death would have been quick. The baby too, poor little thing. It didn’t deserve that kind of end, but it was the best it could have, under the circumstances.

* * *

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead as the Immortan’s Wife.

That’s the way of the War Boys. Live as one, bring the glory to yourself and pass on by His Hand to Valhalla. But you can bring both glory and shame. You’ll be the only one to answer for it.

And he’ll be the one to answer for what the blood-bag did.

He was driving, and he crushed her under the wheels of the War Rig like she was a dead dog filled with maggots.

Her body didn’t burst, but no way could she survive that, or the child.

But either way, she’s dead, and Immortan Joe will have his payment.

No path to Valhalla for him.

No road to glory for the half-life War Boy curled up like an old bag of bones in the pit of the rear lookout.

Mediocre. He will die, without glory, and mediocre.

Footsteps and a flash of white jolt him out of his descent into madness.

One of the Wives kneels just a short reach away from him, her bright red head bowed low over her arms.

He raises his head. His heart beats quicker.

It’d be easy, he thinks. Just grab her, drag her down to the cab and demand control of the War Rig. Four Wives, the Imperator, and the blood-bag.

Barry takes this moment to squeeze against his throat. Not for you, War Boy.

His head drops back against an oil rag and he groans as he shivers.

Who is he fooling?

Even if he was capable of it, even if he managed to overpower the women and the blood-bag, he’d still be dead as soon as the Immortan had the War Rig in his sights.

He’d still be mediocre.

* * *

The groan doesn't sound metal. It sounds human.

She turns to the right, then the left, and gasps.

“What are you doing here?”

For there he is. The skinny little War Boy who came so close to capturing them, his teeth shiny and chrome, white and black war paint long since erased by the sand and sweat, eyes unfocussed and filled with tears.

“He saw it. He saw it all. My own blood-bag driving the Rig that killed her.”

Her eyes trace over his frame, grief supplanted by concern.

War Boys don’t feel grief. They get taught quick-smart not to feel anything except for rage and glee.

This one feels something else.

And he doesn't know what to do with it.

* * *

He can feel her watching him, like he’s worthy of the gaze of one of the Immortan’s Wives.

He deserves her anger, her hate. His blood-bag killed one of her own. He’s failed the Immortan.

Useless little War Boy. Couldn't succeed. Couldn't even die properly with all the chances he had.

He scrunches his eyes closed and bangs the side of his head against the metal floor.

It doesn't hurt as much as his chest hurts, not as much as Larry and Barry.

A gentle touch against his forehead breaks through the pain. “Stop doing that.”

He keeps going.

The Wife doesn’t take her hand away. “Shhhhhh...”

He doesn’t stop until she presses hard against his head. “Stop.”

The tears come faster. He can’t stop them. Not in the face of...whatever this is.

Why isn’t she hating him? Why isn’t she stabbing him, spitting at him, cursing him?

He knows what to do with hate.

Whatever this is, he can’t fight it.

He turns his head to look up at her.

She sits back and pulls her scarf around her shoulders, but she doesn’t move away. There’s no hate in her eyes. Nothing but...

He thinks he knows what it is. Mama looked at him in the same way. So did Dada, before he went away.

The silences stretches out, and he realises he wants to fill it. She needs to know what a pathetic thing he is, how he could never be worthy of that kind of look.

“...Three times the gates were open to me.”

She frowns. “What gates?”

How could she not know? How does she not know of Valhalla, and how the Immortan will escort his War Boys to the gates to ride eternal with him?

He presses on. “I was awaited in Valhalla. They were calling my name.”

Understanding fills her face.

He stares at a patch of rust. “I should be walking with the Immortan, feasting with the heroes of all time.”

The Wife takes a breath, calmly rearranges her clothes, and lies down next to him on the dirty floor. The shock of this alone jolts him away from tears and grief.

“I’d say it was your manifest destiny not to.”

Pretty words. Different. Far better than a War Boy deserves to hear.

But...she is sharing them. These new words.

He must share his. Nothing like as pretty, but he hopes they will do.

“I thought I was being spared for something great.”

She listens.

“I got to...drive a pursuit vehicle.”

The last of the V8 Interceptors, he almost says.

“For a while even Larry and Barry stopped chewing on my windpipe.”

* * *

Odd. Is he speaking in metaphor?

“Who are Larry and Barry?”

He flashes a weak smile, just a fraction of a smile as he turns his head...and gestures to the two grotesque lumps at the side of his neck.

“My mates; Larry,” tapping the larger growth, “and Barry”, tapping the smaller tumour below.

She can’t think of anything to say.

“If they don’t get me, the night fevers will.”

And suddenly it makes painful sense. Half-life isn’t just a name, but an acknowledged truth for so many of the War Boys.

To do all that he’s done so far, just for a chance to pass away on what he thinks are his own terms...

She stretches out a tentative hand and gently traces the scarring on his lips with a finger.

* * *

He can’t move. Doesn’t want to move.

If he moves, this will all be over. She’ll realise that she should never touch a sick little runt like him, not she who was chosen by the Immortan himself.

But how long has it been since anyone touched him without inflicting pain or insults? The War Boys beat any softness out of the Pups early on, and the Organic Mechanic never bothered with any kindness when treating the sick and injured.

One of his hands reaches up, skinny and scarred fingers trembling as they gently close around her wrist.

She stills her movements, but she doesn’t move away.

He tucks his fingers around hers so that they are protected from the dirt and rust under their bodies.

“Nux.”

She blinks. Her eyes are green, he notices. Green like plants.

“Back in the Citadel, they called me Nux.”

She smiles. “They called me Capable.”

Capable. Another pretty word, and she’s shared it with him.

He studies her properly.

Bright red curls, like fire. Those plant-green eyes. White teeth. No scars.

There’s more there than just looks, no matter how pretty those looks are.

* * *

His eyes are blue, like the sky or fresh water.

The scars on his lips and cheeks are meant to intimidate enemies, but they feel soft and warm to her touch. The scars on his chest show he’s a Rev Head, a driver. A good one too, if he managed to keep up with the War Rig and not get killed.

He’s not skinny, but lean.

She feels his gaze travel upward, then pause as he reaches her forehead.

He chokes out a soft laugh.

“Wondered where I dropped those.”

“Oh...!”

Her free hand pats at the aviator goggles perched above her eyebrows. She had found them on the floor of the cab while she was crying, and had slipped them on to hold her hair out of her face. Furiosa had given her a brief look when she saw her wearing them, but had quickly turned away.

They’re comfortable, the leather soft and worn. They’re snug, but don’t pinch.

But if they belong to him...

She reaches round to pull them off her head, but Nux’s hand on hers makes her pause.

“No. You keep ‘em.”

* * *

She looks at him like she’s not sure if he’s lying.

He hitches his left shoulder, Larry and Barry gnawing away at his muscles.

“They never fitted me right. Look right on you though.”

The smile she gives him somehow makes everything hurt less.

* * *

His face lights up like a lantern.

There are real thoughts in his eyes now, no longer the frightened, delirious look of a dog desperate to please an ill-tempered master.

She wonders how long he can hide back here, if he could come to the Green Place as well. Live out the remains of his short life in peace.

She sits back up and grabs the forgotten binoculars to scan the horizon. A little shuffle of limbs and boots, and Nux sits up behind her, resting his back against hers, arms against his kneecaps, watching the sun set in the west.

The night grows colder.

The stars come out overhead.

But Capable and Nux both stay warm.

* * *

TBC 


	2. Part 2

Night time in the Wastelands.

Not a time when any sane man would venture out into the dark.

And yet the War Rig still rolls onwards.

She knows she needs to show her face, show that she's alright and confirm that none of the Immortan's forces are in sight. But that means leaving him, and she's not sure she wants to.

"You head back to the cab."

"Are you sure?"

He nods, blue eyes clouded with tiredness and something that looks like sadness. "Safer for you to be down there, with all of them. I'll keep lookout."

She squeezes his fingers, grateful for the warmth and the sentiment, then leans over and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

She doesn't miss how his pulse suddenly races, how his eyes widen, how his sunken cheeks flush with darker hues.

* * *

He hopes she doesn't notice how much his heart's now pounding. It feels like every part of his body's had a jump-start.

She smiles. Her nose wrinkles slightly.

Her eyes are still green, even in the dark.

A gust of desert wind whips her clothes around her as she stands.

She looks like a goddess. Maybe even a shield maiden of Valhalla.

She leaves him to rest in the pit of the rear lookout, wrapped warm in oily blankets and with one of her scarves tied around his wrist.

He had found it in his pocket from when he had waved it desperately in front of the Immortan, something to prove he had been on the Rig, something that couldn't be ignored. After the insane chase, he had stuffed the scrap of white cloth back into his leg pocket, not wanting to see anything that reminded him of his failure.

But then she had appeared, and he remembered the scarf.

He had carefully tugged the light fabric out of his clothing and had made to give it back to her. Only right that he did.

Instead, she had pressed her hands over his, then removed the scarf from his trembling grip and carefully wrapped it around his free wrist, over a large graze with a green and purple bruise beneath it.

"There. Now we've got one thing of each other's."

He looks at the soft white bandage.

So clean. So perfect. And yet so strong to have survived intact, even in the Wastelands.

Just like her.

She has given him her favour, and he will take pride in it. He must be worthy of it, must repay that kindness.

But how?

He lies on the floor of the lookout, torn between sleep and his plans to aid the Wives.

If he is meant to support Capable and the others, there will be a sign.

* * *

The lantern throws out flickering beams of light and heat in her hands. She sits between Toast and Cheedo, the shorter brunette resting her head against her neck as she sleeps. The Dag half-dozes against Cheedo's back, the youngest girl staring into the lantern's flames.

She doesn't want to sleep.

She has a secret in her mind.

One that won't destroy a life for once.

Not like when they all swore that Angharad's injuries after her pregnancy was confirmed certainly weren't caused by an attempted self-abortion, or when they had all lied and said that The Dag had bled a week or so after her rape, and couldn't be pregnant.

Angharad's injuries had mostly healed by the time she was examined, so they had escaped punishment, but The Dag's pregnancy had been confirmed just days before their escape.

They were still awaiting the punishment for that.

Those secrets had burned in her throat and clenched around her stomach, making her taste metal and bile with every meal, and keeping her awake with fear every night.

But Nux...

He is a secret that has curled up in her breastbone, makes her heart beat quicker and makes her breath stutter. He is a secret that feels like a smile. He feels like hope.

She knows that he is meant for something beyond the Immortan's twisted ideals, that he will do something amazing with the time left to him.

She just wants to see what it is.

The jarring movement of the War Rig pulls her out of her musings. The Fool pulls at the wheel to keep the vehicle steady while Furiosa sits up. Beside her, her sisters stretch and lean forward, trying to see out of the darkened window.

She can hear splashing outside.

Water? All the way out here?

The Fool attempts to steer straight, but all of them can feel the Rig squelch to a halt, the combined weight of the cab and tank dragging them down into the boggy ground.

* * *

He sits up at the sudden swaying. Feels like they've hit soft ground or maybe a swamp. The weight of the cab and tank's too much.

He pokes his head out of the side of the lookout to check.

Yep. That's swampland. No way will the Rig get out without a fight.

They'll need to get rid of as much weight as they can, let the air out of the tyres, find anything wide with enough roughness for the tyres to get a grip on.

He draws back, then turns around, eyes wide as he scans the horizon behind him.

Every minute they get stuck here, is a minute for the Immortan to catch up.

He can't see anything yet, but they'll be getting close.

He watches helplessly as the strange blonde and the short-haired Wives remove the spare tyres from under the tank and fling them over the sodden ground.

Why can't he help them?

You'd be killed, War Boy.

The blood-bag lays pressure charges in the tracks behind the rig like he's done it every day of his life. Who knows? Maybe he did.

Furiosa, Capable and the youngest Wife are shovelling stones and sand under the tyres from the driest looking patches of ground they can see, their movements frantic but focussed.

He grits his teeth, forces himself to breathe and stay low.

But all of them are working together.

Why can't he help them?

You'd be killed, War Boy.

The engines fire up, the Wives and the blood-bag pile into the cab and Furiosa drives. The tyres gain purchase on the wet ground.

The War Rig moves on.

He counts the space between them and the pressure charges.

"500, 600, 700-"

He ducks down as an explosion rips through the night air, sudden and shiny.

He can see two rides flip in the air and land belly side up, the rest of the War Party grinding to a halt behind them.

Relief swims through his clenched guts.

That's bought them some time, but he's got enough brains to know that this won't be the last time they get bogged down.

* * *

The Fool throws a spare cab panel under one of the tyres. The grooves in the metal should mean the tyres can make some purchase, but whether it's enough to get them out of this bog...

Cheedo stands back a little from the tanker with a spanner in hand, ready to duck under and let air out of the tyres at Furiosa's word.

She scrambles onto the Rig behind the cab as the former Imperator rides the gas pedal, rocking the Rig back and forth. "Come on, come on..."

The wheels spin helplessly in the mud.

* * *

Gunshots.

Please, not gunshots.

Has to be the Bullet Farmer. He has a ride with tank treads; he'd get over this land easy.

He risks standing up...and then he sees it, poking out of the murky fog before them.

Some sort of column, maybe a post?

And there's higher ground.

Whatever that thing is, the War Rig has a winch. Loop the chains around, that'd get them out, no bother!

He glances down. The blood-bag, Furiosa and all the Wives bar Capable are standing around the stranded Rig, Furiosa armed with a shiny-looking rifle and scope.

That's it.

No more sitting around and being scared.

He scrambles out of the lookout, down the length of the tank and onto the back of the cab next to Capable.

"Where are you going?"

"Up front!"

He swings himself down to the driver's side and slides into the seat, groping under the dashboard for the ignition switches.

One. One. Two. One. Red. Black.

Go!

Somehow, wonderfully, the War Rig moves off.

* * *

She yells down to her others as they move off. "He wants to help!"

Toast sprints in front, legs pumping madly. "Who does?"

"The War Boy!"

"Where did he come from?!"

The Dag catches up with surprising speed. "I thought we threw him off the Rig?!"

The Rig slows and then splashes to a halt. The Fool overtakes the others, hauls the cab door open and aims a handgun straight at Nux's face.

To his credit, Nux takes his hands away from the wrench-wheel and gestures to a point in front of the Rig. "T-There's high ground, just beyond that thing."

She follows the direction of his shaking finger.

"He means the tree."

"Yeah. Tree."

More gunfire.

"Leave him to me." Furiosa steps up to the cab and trades guns with the Fool.

She can hear The Dag murmuring, "Say, anyone notice that approaching light? Exploding gunfire?"

She resists the sudden urge to snap. It won't help.

* * *

Furiosa doesn't take her eyes off of him. "Get out."

No!

He has to prove himself!

He has to help, has to be worthy of all of them!

"I-I can do this. I know this machine."

Capable nods at the edge of his vision. "He does, he's a Rev Head."

Gunfire echoes across the swamp. A sudden louder shot rips through the air.

The short-haired Wife glances at the blood-bag. "You've got two left."

Furiosa darts a look between him, the blood-bag and the Wife, and flicks her head slightly.

Another loud shot.

"On him."

She passes the handgun to the Wife, who aims it straight at his head.

He risks glancing back at Capable, and smiles slightly, lowering his hands enough to rest against the wrench-wheel.

A third shot...and what sounds like glass shattering.

He sees his chance.

"Hey!"

He scrambles out of the cab and hits the ground running. The Wife follows him to the front of the Rig, never taking the gun off him.

"War Boy!"

It's a threat.

He yanks at the cable attached to the front bumper. "I'll use the winch around the tree-thing!"

He doesn't wait to see if she approves. He needs to do this now.

Frantic footsteps and heavy breathing echo in his ears, and suddenly the blood-bag is at his side. He hauls the cable and chains out of his hands and points behind him. "You drive the Rig!"

He sprints back, the Wives and Furiosa already in the cab, and gets ready to drive-

No!

The blood-bag's at the tree-thing, but the chain won't reach. He's trying but there's no give.

No. Think.

Think think think.

He flicks his eyes over the side of the cab, his trousers, his hands...his hands.

The chain!

The chain where the blood-bag was strapped to his ride!

He spins around and holds out his arm, the chain links stretched tight.

Like she can read his mind, Capable is there beside him with bolt-cutters.

A fast snip and the chains are free.

Relief and delight bowl over his brain and make him bold.

He leans over to her and kisses her on the cheek.

The delighted smile she gives him spurs him on.

"Blood-bag!"

He waves the chain in the air.

* * *

She can see how much the running back and forth has drained him of energy.

But she can see how proud and happy he looks.

The little patch of skin on her cheek where he kissed her tingles slightly.

She would be lying if she said she wasn't proud of him.

He scrambles into the driver's seat and gets ready to move off.

The Fool tightens the cable and waves to them.

Now!

He revs the engine.

The cable grows taut.

The gunshots are growing louder. She can hear them hitting the ground, hitting metal!

Please, please, don't let anyone be hurt...

Nux doesn't waver. He wrenches the door shut and puts his foot down. She ducks down behind the driver's seat and prays.

The Rig moves.

She can hear Furiosa yelling next to the cab door.

She peeks over the seat, out of the window.

She can see the Fool...and she can see her sisters, all running to the higher ground, all safe.

Nux looks behind him and gives the Rig another shot of guzzoline.

With a groan and a jolt, the Rig moves freely.

* * *

The blood-bag leaps up and grabs onto the edge of the driver's door.

He can see the desperation and relief in his face, but no fear.

What kind of man is the blood-bag?

Was he one of the wanderers?

Maybe even a Road Warrior, like the stories of Max Rockatansky?

He gives the man a shaky smile, then turns his attention back to the path ahead.

Explosions rock the dunes, but he keeps his foot steady on the gas pedal and his shoulders straight. Larry twinges, but not enough to break his concentration.

The War Rig sputters to a halt once they reach the high ground, steam venting out of the front and sides of the engine block.

He puts the Rig into neutral, then turns to her.

"I never thought I'd do something as shiny as that!"

He leans out of the window as Furiosa arrives, sharp eyes scanning the vehicle. "How are the engines?"

He grimaces. "Very hot and real thirsty."

They've got at least a two minute wait before the engines have cooled off enough to move.

"Hey."

He turns back.

The blood-bag points down the trail. "You need to take the Rig half a click down the track." He sticks two explosive charges under his arms, grabs a can of guzzoline and a crowbar, and marches down the track.

Furiosa calls out to him. "What if you're not back by the time the engines have cooled?"

He turns, looks at her and shrugs. "Well, you keep moving."

With that, he sprints off into the murky distance.

* * *

She can't hear what Toast and Furiosa are saying, but she doesn't need to.

Whatever his real name is, he doesn't deserve the name 'Fool'.

She'd heard legends back in the Citadel, of the old and the new worlds, before and after the Oil and Water Wars. Miss Giddy had told them it was part of their heritage.

Some of the stories about the new world spoke of a police officer, a good man gone crazy after his wife and son were killed, a man who wandered into the Wastelands and answered injustice with honour and bravery, though he never meant to get involved.

He was called the Road Warrior. There were stories of other, lesser warriors, but this man was the real deal.

Is this Fool a Road Warrior?

Could he even be The Road Warrior?

She hopes she will know for sure.

Furiosa makes to take the wheel. Nux slides out of the cab and runs ahead of the Rig, keeping watch on the path and waving the vehicle on.

The gunfire becomes a faint echo as they move towards safety.

Then there is no time to think as they frantically pass cans of water up to the Dag and Nux, both trying to cool the engines. Cheedo is gathering food and water to store in the cab, she and Toast are cleaning as much dust out of the vents as they can, and Furiosa is keeping watch.

An almighty explosion booms across the swamp, turning the sky pink and yellow.

All of them turn and watch. And wait.

Has he managed it?

Crows pass overhead, cawing their indignation to the stars.

...There!

She watches as Furiosa raises her gun, takes aim...

...And the Road Warrior strides up the path, belts of ammunition slung around his shoulders, a steering wheel in one hand and dragging a heavy tarpaulin with the other.

His forehead is covered in blood.

* * *

The Road Warrior strides past them and hands the steering wheel to him. He takes it with a nod and a small smile.

The boot almost hits him in the face.

Why the-?

Oh. Oh yeah.

He actually remembered. He looks at the boot.

Even the right foot and about the right size.

He's good.

The short Wife—no, not the short Wife. Capable told him all the other's names while they were cooling down. The short one is Toast, the white blonde one is the Dag, and the youngest one is Cheedo.

The Wife who was lost was called the Splendid Angharad.

Toast moves forward, studying the Warrior's face. "Are you hurt? You're bleeding."

He moves to the buckets rigged up under the tanker.

Furiosa shakes her head. "That's not his blood."

He points at the buckets. "What's this?"

The Dag speaks up. "It's Mother's Milk."

He looks down at the contents, shrugs slightly, and then rinses the blood off his face.

* * *

With the new steering wheel fitted, they make their way out of the swamp. She tries not to stare at the...things...making their four-legged way across the putrid landscape.

Nux now sits beside her, one arm draped across the back of the seats behind her, the other resting against the edges of the doorframe as he stares out at the never-ending marshes.

She's happy to pretend he's shivering from the cold, not from fear, or the night fevers.

She leans back and rests her head against his shoulder.

One arm tentatively wraps around her shoulders, ready to move at the slightest hint that she is uncomfortable.

Instead she rearranges herself so that she is tucked against his chest, her head against his neck, and carefully sandwiching his arm between her own.

She lets her eyes fall shut as his breathing settles down, ignoring the questioning looks of Toast and Cheedo. The Dag studies them for a moment, and just smiles.

* * *

He's been awake the entire night, but he can't sleep.

He can't bear to miss a second of this.

She feels so warm, so solid, and so real.

He leans his cheek against the top of her head, and quietly gazes out at the sand dunes before them.

The Road Warrior jerks in his seat and suddenly bolts awake, ready to punch whatever terror has tried to crawl out of his dreams.

Furiosa looks over at him. "It's OK. Sleep. Get some rest."

He settles back down, but he doesn't go back to sleep. He looks out at the endless desert, then back at her. "How do you know this Green Place even exists?"

She stares straight ahead. "I was born there."

He frowns. "Why'd you leave?"

"I didn't. I was taken as a child."

She looks out to her left. "Stolen."

So maybe the rumours were true after all. Maybe Furiosa was one of the Immortan's former Wives.

The Road Warrior pauses for a moment. "You done this before?"

"Many times. Now that I drive a War Rig, this is the best shot I'll ever have."

"And them?"

He turns and gestures at the four exhausted women.

"They're looking for hope."

"What about you?"

She is silent for a heartbeat. "Redemption."

Redemption. It sounds like a nice word. Capable would agree with that.

But what is he looking for, now that he has joined them?

Hope? Redemption?

They sound pretty, but they don't sound quite right to him.

Maybe that's something he needs to work out on his own. Maybe it's something to work out with them, with her.

The sight of a beetle crawling up Capable's arm grabs his attention. He studies it, then carefully rests his hand against her shoulder and lets it crawl onto his finger.

Shiny.

And, he thinks as he sucks the insect into his mouth before it can fly away, the first snack he's had in a long time.

* * *

TBC


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not just an awesome movie, but now a multiple Oscar-winning awesome movie. All thoroughly well-deserved too. ^_^
> 
> Disclaimer: I’m just wandering around George Miller’s Wasteland, looking for hope and a story. Needless to say, it all belongs to him.

 

It’s around the middle of the afternoon when the War Rig growls and grumbles to a halt atop a small dune. Furiosa scrambles out of the cab onto the roof, armed with her personal binoculars, ready to scan the endless horizon.

Nux sprawls next to her, as comforting a presence as any of her sisters now. The pained shadows beneath his eyes have receded slightly, thanks to a few hours’ rest, but he still trembles with the cold remains of the night fevers, even in the heat of the Wasteland.

She hears Toast sigh, then pause for breath as she leans slightly out of the window. “Hey...what’s that?”

Above them, Furiosa turns to where the dark-haired girl is staring. In the cab, she, Cheedo, the Dag, even Nux, press close to her and stare out of the window.

A tower. With a shining beacon atop.

The former Imperator stands still for a heartbeat.

“I remember somethin’ like that.”

She can hear the almost-smile in her raspy voice.

She slides back into the cab and guns the engine, turning the Rig towards the tower.

Nux leans back and braces his arm against the empty door space. There is an invitation in his gaze to lean against him, if she wishes.

She squeezes his free hand when no-one is looking and leans back against his side, not missing the twitch of muscles in his neck when he tries to hide a smile.

\---

 It’s not lights. It looks like glass, maybe metal?

Whatever it is, it looks pretty.

He watches closely, and then frowns slightly as he picks up a new noise.

A voice. A woman’s voice.

“HELP!! HELP ME!!”

There!

On top of the tower!

A naked woman, screaming for help. Sprawled on the highest reaches, not a stitch on her.

He feels slightly uneasy and looks away.

It doesn’t feel right to look at her like that.

From his brief gaze, he can tell the woman looks strong and healthy. He can’t see any ropes or chains keeping her there. And why would whoever left her there keep the tower in decent shape, and fix all those shiny things to it?

The War Rig crawls forward towards the base of the tower. He looks back, studies the faces of the Wives. All of them are craning forward, desperately trying to see what new incident awaits them.

The Road Warrior glances about the dunes, then back at the woman. “Uh-uh.”

He points upwards. “That’s bait.”

Furiosa doesn’t take her eyes off the structure. She pulls up to the base of the tower and kills the engine. “Stay in the Rig.”

She slides out of the cab and marches forward, arms spread out not unlike the Immortan himself.

He leans forward and strains to hear what she says.

“I am one of the Vuvalini, of the Many Mothers.”

She walks towards the tower with no hint of fear.

“My Initiate Mother was Katie Concannon.”

She stops and gazes up.

“I am the daughter of Mary JoBassa.”

Her voice catches. The woman stops wailing and stands.

“My clan was Swaddle Dog.”

The woman raises her hands and lets out a strange shriek that sounds half like the call of the carrion birds, half a cry of joy.

He starts in his seat as he hears the roar of motorcycle engines. Well kept, by the sound of ‘em.

\---

Half-a-dozen bikes.

Are they friendly?

She looks back up the woman and watches her slide down a rope to ground, and dig frantically in the dirt for a frayed smock.

The bikes wheel around in sync and park before the Rig, leaving a clear path between Furiosa and the tower. The riders pull back their visors and raise their guns.

She can tell from a glance that they’re all female.

The woman, now clothed, sprints down the sand dune and comes to a tentative halt before Furiosa. Her eyes ask only one question.

And Furiosa answers. “It’s me.”

They walk towards each other and fold themselves into a desperate embrace, Furiosa’s face hidden, the woman’s face filled with sorrow and relief.

\---

_One of the older women steps forward, pulling her headdress away from her face. She tilts her head to another woman, her hair as silver as the moon. “There’s something in the eyes. Perhaps it is JoBassa’s child.”_

_The Valkyrie finally releases her and nods her head. Her voice is thick with tears. “This is our Furiosa.”_

_She smiles and squeezes her kinswoman’s shoulders. “How long has it been?”_

_She tries not to let tears choke her voice. “Seven thousand days, plus the ones I don’t remember.”_

_The woman steps back, her eyes now shadowed in pain._

_Another Elder – for that is who they are - steps forward. “Furiosa. What happened to your mother?”_

_“She died. On the third day.”_

_As one, all of the women bow their heads, reach their right arms up in front of their heads, pluck an invisible something out of the air and pull it in close to their hearts._

_She mimics the gesture._

_She doesn’t know why this one motion almost makes her cry._

_The Elder resumes her questions. “From where did you come?”_

_“The West. Citadel. Beyond the mountains.”_

_She turns back, nodding at the Rig._

_They see her._

_They know what to do._

\---

Time to take a risk.

He and the Road Warrior slowly clamber out of the Rig, the Wives already out and in the lead.

The Elders raise their weapons, pulling back slightly.

The second white-haired one narrows her eyes. “The men. Who are they?”

Can’t blame her. He knows he must look a sight, shaved head, pale and skinny. The Road Warrior’s bulkier but compact, and you don’t want to get close to him.

Furiosa turns back, something like fondness in her eyes.

“They’re reliable. They helped us get here.”

She nods. No lie.

A burst of pride blooms in his chest.

He helped.

He did good.

He watches as Capable and the other Wives move forward, the Vuvalini opening their arms and reaching gnarled fingers up to touch pale skin.

He waits.

This is for Capable. For Toast and Cheedo, for the Dag.

\---

The middle aged Elder gently takes Cheedo’s hands in her own and bends her head down. The sunlight highlights the threads of silver in her dark hair. “Where did you find such creatures?”

She squeezes the younger girl’s hand and smiles. “So soft...”

She tries not to laugh at the Dag. The silver-haired Elder has taken the blonde’s face in her hands and is studying her mouth intently. “This one still has all her teeth!”

She lets out a warm croak of a laugh and wraps her arms around the younger woman.

Another Elder with tight white curls is scrutinising Toast with a fond expression. The short-haired girl curiously reaches towards the bandolier strapped across the woman’s chest...

And gets her hand smacked down!

A second of shock, and the Elder starts to laugh. Toast looks slightly shocked, then breaks down into giggles.

She’s not sure she’s ever heard her giggle like that.

It’s nice. Perhaps a sign of things to come.

Furiosa stand in the middle of the group, a rare smile on her face as she watches all of them.

“I can’t wait for them to see it.”

The silver-haired Elder steps forward and stares into her face. “See? See what?”

The former Imperator looks confused. “...Home. The Green Place.”

Another Elder steps forward. “But if you came from the West...you passed it.”

All of them turn back, to face the way they came.

Dread builds in her stomach.

No.

The Dag tentatively speaks. “The crows...the creepy place with all the crows.”

And she watches as Furiosa’s hopes and dreams fall apart.

\---

It’s just a jumble of voices to him, but he can get the gist of it.

“The soil...”

“We had to get out-”

“We had no water-”

“-the water was filth-”

“It was poisoned-”

“-it was sour-”

“And then the crows came.”

“We couldn’t grow anything...”

Toast speaks up. “Where are the others?”

“What others?”

“The Many Mothers.”

“...We’re the only ones left.”

He doesn’t know what to do.

He can only watch as Furiosa staggers past the Rig, all in a daze, slowly loosening her mechanical arm from its strapping and braces.

He wants to cry.

He wants to hug Capable and pretend this isn’t happening.

\---

She doesn’t know what to do.

She can only watch at Furiosa collapses to her knees in the sand, the wind whipping the dust about her.

Tears burn her eyes as she hears the heartbroken scream almost physically tearing through the older woman’s body.

She wants Nux to hug her and pretend this isn’t happening.

But it is.

And nothing they can do will change it.

\---

Night falls over the Wasteland, and the crew of the War Rig have split off into smaller groups, sitting quietly with the Vuvalini.

She and Nux have claimed their space in the lookout, wrapped in each other’s arms, a hand-woven blanket covering their legs, and a lantern casting a flickering yellow light over their faces.

She watches as Cheedo, safely ensconced with the main group of Elders, points at something in the sky.

Nux tilts his head, trying to see where she’s pointing.

A shooting star?

No...a satellite. That was what Miss Giddy called them.

She can’t quite make out their conversation, but she doesn’t have to.

\---

He rests his head against the empty window frame of the lookout and stares down at the Dag. She’s standing near to the silver-haired Elder, hands rubbing over her belly.

Her words, he can just make out.

“Stay right where you are, little joey. Kind of lost its novelty out here.”

The Elder looks up. “You havin’ a baby?”

She makes a motion with her head to say yes.

“Warlord Junior. Gonna be so ugly.”

He feels his eyes widen and his heart pound.

She’s a successful breeder. She’s having the Immortan’s child. They risked the Immortan’s heirs, two of ‘em, just to get all five Wives out of the Citadel.

She did all of those shiny things to escape and survive, and she did all of ‘em with a baby in her belly. A baby still hanging on.

Just as strong as its father.

The Elder looks at her and offers her a smile. “It could be a girl.”

He thinks on this.

The Immortan fathered it, sure, but it’s held on in there. Its mother’s gone through hell to find somewhere safe to live, helped dig the War Rig out, fought like a caged feral to protect her own, and not breathed a word around him or the Road Warrior that she’s been fighting for two.

If it’s anything like its mother, it’s got to be a girl.

\---

She holds back a smile as she watches him.

She knows what he’s thinking, and what he’s about to ask.

His forehead creases slightly, then his cheeks go paler than before as he turns his head and stares down at her belly.

“If she’s...are you...?”

She scrunches her nose at him and shakes her head.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

The panicked look in his eyes fades, but the concern still remains. He tucks a corner of the blanket around her feet and pulls her shawl back over her shoulder.

One less thing to worry about, but there’s still so much to consider now.

She sees Furiosa, wrapped up in a blanket just like a child, quietly move towards the dune where the Road Warrior has perched. His head jerks up and down every few seconds, between the silent horizon and whatever he has in his lap.

She’ll make him the offer they’ve all been talking about.

Tomorrow, they’ll leave the War Rig, load whatever will fit onto the bikes, and ride out...there.

Wherever there is.

She’s willing to go. So are her sisters.

Nux has made it clear that wherever she goes, he will follow.

\---

He’s not leaving her, no matter what.

She won’t ever leave her sisters.

They won’t leave Furiosa.

Furiosa won’t abandon the remains of her clan, not after all that’s gone before.

And the Vuvalini will never leave any of ‘em behind.

Anyway, it’s not like he’s got anywhere else to go.

\---

They leave at first light, the bikes kicking up trails of salt and sand as they ride across the Plains of Silence. Behind them, the Road Warrior and the War Rig fade into the swirls of dust and the heat of the desert.

He didn’t say goodbye.

She doesn’t think he needed to.

Nux steers their bike slightly to the right, avoiding the dust clouds from the bike that the Young Elder and Cheedo have claimed. She wraps her arms around his back and leans her head against his shoulder, feeling his muscles twitch beneath her fingers.

Who knows what lies across the salt?

As long as she’s with them, she doesn’t care. This is so much better than what they left behind.

Isn’t it?

A new roar, a deeper roar pulls her out of her thoughts.

The War Rig?

No, too high.

Not one of the Immortan’s scouts?

No, they’d be dead or fighting within a heartbeat.

A heavy blue bike, laden with blankets and fuel, cruises through the swirling dirt and turns slightly to stop in front of Furiosa.

The Road Warrior hauls himself off of the bike and approaches the former Imperator, pulling something out of his battered leather jacket.

She leans forward, Nux with her, both straining to see what the older man is giving to Furiosa.

\---

Looks like...a rag?

He strains and catches the sound of the Road Warrior’s gruff voice.

“...This is your way home.”

The former Imperator straightens up, shoulders slack with surprise.

“We go back?”

He nods.

Toast leans forward, not bothering to hide her shock.

“Back?!”

The Dag looks back and forth between the two older warriors.

“I thought you weren’t insane no more?”

He bites back a smile at that.

The middle aged Elder dismounts and strides up to the pair.

“What are they saying?”

Another Elder answers. “He wants them to go back from where they came.”

The Citadel.

...What?

The same Elder asks the question all of them are thinking. “What’s there to find at the Citadel?”

Furiosa’s voice is quiet, but it carries.

“Green.”

“And water.” Toast straightens up, speaks around the toothpick in her mouth.

“There’s a ridiculous amount of clear water. And a lot of crops.”

The Dag adds her voice to the mix. “It’s got everything you need...as long as you’re not afraid of heights.”

The Keeper looks over at Toast. “Where does the water come from?”

The scorn in her voice is clear. “He pumps it up from deep in the earth. Calls it Aqua-Cola and keeps it all for himself.”

“And because he owns it, he owns all of us.” The Dag’s voice has become harder, almost mocking.

The Keeper scoffs. “I don’t like him already!”

He feels Capable’s arms loosen from around his waist as she dismounts, keeping her blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

The Valkyrie stands tall, caution in her tone. “It’ll take two weeks to skirt the wall of mountains.”

The Road Warrior shakes his head. “No.”

He gestures back towards the mountains.  “I suggest we go back the same way we came. Through the canyon.”

He feels a chill go through his gut. Whether it’s from what the Road Warrior said, or from what Larry and Barry are doing to his body, he’s not sure.

Toast looks around. “It’s open, we know that. Right? He bought all his war parties through.”

“So we take the War Rig and we charge it right through the middle of them.” He makes a stabbing motion through the air.

He feels her eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns and shares a look with her.

Crazy? Or brave?

The Road Warrior continues, “We can decouple the tank at the pass, shut it off behind us...”

He flicks his hand.

The Keeper spreads her arms.

“Kaboom!”

The delight in her voice is tangible. The other Elders and the Wives laugh.

Even the Road Warrior cracks a brief smile.

Furiosa brings them out of their brief excitement. “And how exactly do we take the Citadel? Assuming we’re still alive by then?”

Toast chews on her toothpick. “It’ll be easy. All that’s left are his War Pups, and War Boys too sick to fight.”

Capable finally moves forward, red curls blowing gently in the wind. “And we’ll be with Nux. He’s a War Boy, he’ll be bringing us home, bringing back what’s stolen as he’s meant to.”

A part of his brain notes that she’s referring to herself and her sisters as possessions.

He doesn’t like it, but that’s how the Immortan thinks.

And actually, it’s a pretty good plan.

Something curls in his belly, then winds its way up to his heart.

Warmth.

Light.

They could do this.

They could actually do this.

They’ve made it this far. Why the hell not?

All eyes turn on him, waiting for his input.

“Yeah.”

He shifts slightly on the scratched leather and nods.

“Feels like hope.”

\---

The Keeper’s voice is jubilant. “I like this plan. We could start again! Just like the old days!”

Furiosa doesn’t move.

She can imagine what’s going on in the older woman’s mind.

Lingering grief over the loss of her birthplace.

Fear for the Wives.

The comfort of having the remaining Vuvalini around her, and the unwillingness to risk her family.

The chance that they could all die.

The chance that they could run, but starve and die on the plains.

The chance that they could _live_.

The Road Warrior’s voice is rough, but kind.

“Look. It’ll be a hard day, but I guarantee you that 160 days’ ride that way,” he turns and points at the endless flatness, “there’s nothing but salt.”

He gestures behind them. “At least that way you might be able to...together...”

He looks down at his hands, and the ragged map on the fuel tank of the bike.

“...Maybe come across some kind of redemption.”

He holds out his right hand. The offer is clear.

Furiosa pauses, looks at him...

And slaps her good hand into his.

Anticipation crackles through the group like lightning.

She looks back at Nux, his eyes now bright with determination.

 If they can escape and survive the Wasteland, they can surely do this.

\---

If the Wives, the Vuvalini, the Road Warrior, if he...no, if _they_ can survive out here, then they can get home.

A grin slides onto his face as he revs the bike’s engine, as Capable slings herself back onto the pillion and holds onto his shoulders.

Oh, what a day this is gonna be.

What a lovely day!

\---

TBC


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And because I can’t write decent action scenes for toffee, you’re getting an epilogue/aftermath.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing of Mad Max, no matter how shiny and chrome. I blame TV Tropes entirely for Nux’s part.

 

 

Five months have passed since that day.

The day when the Immortan and his followers burned out in a blaze on the Fury Road.

The day the women of the Citadel rose up to guide the people, and to change the lives of all around them.

The day the Road Warrior nodded farewell to them all and strode out into the Wasteland once more.

* * *

There is now a small pond at the foot of the waterfall. Green tendrils are starting to spread outwards and upwards, into all the nooks and crannies in the Citadel’s walls.

She can see The Dag, her belly now swelling high and firm, scrambling over the rocks beside the waterfall and carefully scrutinising each plant. A group of War Boys watch her from the foot of the rocks, all ready to catch her should she slip.

Her slim fingers trail over the leaves, tracing the path of each stem in turn.

There might be flowers soon.

A new Green Place.

She turns and squints against the morning sun at the descending platform. Furiosa, her wounds now fully healed, stands with the head of the Milk Mothers, both gesturing down the length of Fury Road towards Gas Town and the Bullet Farm. Today’s supply run is almost ready to depart.

A band of giggling, unruly War Pups cluster adoringly around Cheedo at the edges of the pond, only daring to disturb the surface of the water with her explicit say-so.

Two older Pups keep a careful watch on their younger companions as they listen to the youngest Wife explaining something, her hands darting through the air like birds.

High above, she knows Toast, the Milk Mothers, and the rest of the remaining Vuvalini will be monitoring the water levels, the number of plants in the hydroponics area, the requests from the construction teams on the ground, and so many other things.

The Citadel is at peace, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t ready for war.

* * *

The grief comes as it always does, in a sudden wave that stabs at her heart and makes her catch her breath. She sits down atop a dusty red rock and closes her eyes, fingers digging into the dirt even as she feels the gentle pressure of his goggles around her head.

Her toes clench and curl inside her battered boots as she reminds herself to breathe.

She misses him.

More than she realises, and even after only a few days in his company.

She always thinks that he should be here with them, with her, in the new Citadel he helped make possible.

But he always knew he would die young, die ill.

He didn’t know how historic he would die on the Fury Road.

She hopes that wherever he is, there is green.

Perhaps Valhalla is green.

She thinks he would like that.

She sighs and shakes her head, pulling herself out of her contemplations.

There is still so much to do before she can journey there herself, and it won’t be for a long time yet.

But for now, she will help create a patch of Valhalla here, in the Wastelands.

* * *

Valhalla doesn’t look that shiny, not from here.

He squints through the doorway carved into the massive sun-coloured wall and tilts his head.

From here, he can make out some of the faces of the War Boys who had gone before. Some are feasting, some are fighting and roaring, and the rest are cheering them on.

He can’t see the Immortan from here.

He’s not sure he wants to.

And he can’t see any of the Vuvalini either.

But maybe they wouldn’t want to go there.

He looks down and sighs.

“You got what you wanted, War Boy.”

Not like he’s got a choice here.

He takes one slow step forward.

* * *

“That’s not the only choice.”

He jumps slightly at the voice, his heart, or something like it, fluttering in fright.

He recognises that voice.

But…

He turns around and tries not to flinch.

The Splendid Angharad stands before him, gold-brown hair loose over her shoulders, a shiny gold chestplate over her long white dress, and her belly now flat as his own. The scars over her face and arms shine silvery-gold against her skin, ugly and beautiful at the same time.

A plump, sandy-haired baby is tucked into the crook of her arm, happily chewing on its fat little fist.

“But…you…”

The eldest Wife smiles.

“Died? Yes. Me and this one both.”

She pulls the baby - her son, he realises belatedly – safely into her arms.

“We were given a choice, when we stood where you stand now. There is Valhalla, which you have more than earned your place in… or there is another place. A green place.”

Green place?

Something that sits where his heart once was gives a tug.

Angharad reaches out a hand to him.

“Come and see.”

He hesitates for only a moment before he takes her hand, embarrassed at the feel of his rough, callused palm on her unmarked fingers.

The peaceful darkness behind her shimmers, and reforms into another walled kingdom, gates open in welcome.

Beyond those gates…

He lets go of her hand and staggers forward, eyes wide.

* * *

Beyond the sun-coloured walls and the golden gates of this new place…there is green.

Green in every direction. Green like the highest reaches of the Citadel.

Green so far before him that he can’t see where it begins or ends.

And not just green, but reds, yellows, blues…flowers and plants in every colour he can name and more than a few he can’t.

Pools of clean water are sprinkled across the green, shimmering peacefully in a light that looks just like the sun. The whole place smells like fresh water, and new life.

Figures in pinks and browns are scattered through the green, some in groups, others by themselves.

All of them look happy.

He turns in a slow circle, trying to take everything in.

He lets out a shocked laugh.

A delighted baby squeal behind him brings him back to himself. He wheels around to face Angharad, who is fussing over her child with a fond, almost sad look on her face.

“Where…what is this place?”

Angharad smiles. Her nose wrinkles slightly.

“This,” she gestures to everything before her with a free hand, “is Freya’s Field.”

He knows he looks confused.

He can’t help it.

It’s not every day you find out there’s an afterlife all in green.

She chuckles and strides forward, hair blowing in the breeze.

“Those who die in battle or childbirth have a choice when the Valkyries come to claim them – to go to Valhalla, or to Freya’s Fields.”

She studies the scene before her.

“You were claimed by a Valkyrie before you died.”

* * *

_…Rictus yanking the War Rig’s air scoops above his head…_

_…His stomach feeling like it had sunk to his boots, but his heart swelling in pride as he watched them escape…_

_…His last words to her…’witness me’…_

_…Capable stretching her right arm out before her, and plucking something out of the air before pulling it to her heart…_

_…The fire had burned, but he had felt no pain…_

* * *

He smiles.

So she was a shield-maiden after all. And to be claimed by her, and for this…

He stares up at the endless sky, and then back at his guide. “Were you a Valkyrie too?”

She smiles fondly, and shifts her son from her hip to cuddle him against her breastplate. The little one squeals and pats at the shiny metal, leaving smeary handprints over its surface.

“I was, I am, and will be again.”

Her blue eyes darken with sadness. She walks past him and sits down on a little mound of grass beside the nearest pond, gesturing for him to join her.

“There will always be death in the Wasteland, as certain as there is life. You can’t always control your death, but you have a choice on how to live your life.”

He sits down next to her, stretching his legs out before him. “And…after you die?”

“A result of how you lived, but even then, for those who are chosen, they have a choice.”

He leans back, propped up on his elbows, and studies the great gate before him, and the greenery around him.

“Will…will she have this choice as well? Capable, I mean. And the others too.”

“Between Valhalla and here? Yes.”

He thinks on this.

“…Would she know? That I’m here and not there?”

She casts an expectant smile upon him. “So you do want to stay here?”

He nods.

“My choice. And I think she’d like it here more than Valhalla.”

“Then I think we can arrange something. To make sure though, you’d have to wait here until she passes on, so that she can see you.”

“How long would that be?”

“Not for many decades yet, thanks to what you did for her and my Sisters.”

He grins fondly.

“Good.”

He sits up and shuffles himself across the grass to sit next to her. The baby stares at him with wide blue eyes, then ducks his head into his mother’s shoulder.

He proffers a scraped and scarred finger, just in the baby’s eyeline. The baby gurgles and reaches up to grab onto it, his grip surprisingly strong.

Decades. Tens of years.

A long time to wait.

Angharad leans against him, bright and solid and warm. Her hair gently tickles against his bare shoulder. The baby gums down on his finger, coating it in drool. He looks more like his mother than he does his father.

A warm wind whips around them. Freya’s Field smells like what he thinks peace smells like.

He turns his face to the golden gates, closes his eyes, and smiles.

No, this is pretty good, all things considered.

There’s no better place to wait for a Valkyrie.

* * *

END


End file.
